‘Why, sir?’ asked Cato, the sick taste of betrayal in his throat. ‘Why me?’

‘You speak their language. You’re their commander. It would be best coming from you.’

Cato shook his head. ‘I can’t do it, sir . . .’

Quintillus quickly leaned forward, glaring at the young centurion. ‘You will do it! That’s an order, and this is the last time I will brook any insubordination from you!’

Vespasian laid his hand on the procurator’s shoulder. ‘There’s no need to concern yourself with this, Quintillus. The centurion will obey my orders. He knows what will happen if his men are told to disarm by someone else. We don’t want them to cause us any trouble. Trouble they might regret.’

So that was it then, Cato realised. The Wolves were finished, and if they protested too much they would face summary punishment of one kind or another. And he would do the dirty work for the new governor. Worse still, there was no choice in the matter. For the sake of his men, Cato must be the one to tell them how little value Rome placed on the blood the Atrebatans had shed on behalf of the empire.

‘Very well, sir. I’ll do it.’

‘I’m most grateful, to be sure,’ said Quintillus.

‘Thank you, Centurion.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘I knew you’d understand. Best get on with it straight away then.’

Cato turned and saluted his legate, and before the procurator could react to the slight, he marched out of the tent and back into the brilliant sunshine. The heat closed round him like a blanket, but the prickly discomfort of his tunic no longer bothered Cato as he made his way out of the administration tent and walked slowly round the side of the headquarters area. He felt sick. Sick from the cold-hearted betrayal of his men. Sick at the fact that the Wolves would regard him with hatred and contempt. The bond of comradeship they had once shared would twist in their guts like a knife, and it would be his hand behind the blade. All thought and pleasure he might have had of his new command was banished from his mind as Cato turned the corner of the tent complex and walked stiffly towards the double line of the surviving men of the Wolf Cohort. To one side of the Atrebatan warriors a few sections of legionaries were being drilled in full armour. Just in case, Cato smiled bitterly to himself.

As soon as he caught sight of the centurion, Mandrax called the men to attention. They stopped chatting and straightened up, spear and shield neatly grounded by every man. Shoulders back, chests out and chins up, as Macro had showed them on their first day of training. Their bronze helmets gleamed in the sunlight as Cato walked up and stood in front of them.